


Of Violins and Masturbation

by Marlboro_Blanc



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blame Random_Nexus, Floof, I Don't Even Know, Its a term for masturbation, M/M, Polishing The Monocle, Random_Nexus made me do it, There is no meaning to this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlboro_Blanc/pseuds/Marlboro_Blanc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock destroys John's jumper, this somehow leads to Sherlock wanting to conduct an experiment on self love. John learns Sherlock has a very weird term for masturbation as well as an equally unique method.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



John woke up early that morning.

He smiled to himself, knowing he was about to begin his first day off in what felt like forever. No surgery and, more importantly, no cases! Joy upon joys. He had planned a day off bumming around the flat in his boxers watching crap telly and eating toast. If Sherlock wanted someone to run around and chase lunatics with, then he was out of luck. John Watson would not be leaving the flat today, John Watson may not even get dressed. 

He shifted in the bed, settling in the middle of the mattress till he felt like a large blob of human jelly. There was a soft breeze coming through the open window, dancing over his skin and cooling the hot surface of his epidermis. He sighed in delight, letting his eyes glance over his alarm clock, seeing what the time was but knowing he didn't have to let those red lines of pain sink in. He had nothing to do today, nothing at all. Just him, his bed and a few cups of tea. Bliss.

'In you face alarm clock' he sneered at his tormentor. Well, he would have said that if he was in the habit of speaking to inanimate objects, which of course, he was not, mostly, okay, one time he yelled at a plant pot, but Sherlock had really, really pissed him of. Then there was the time he told a rude joke to the oven, but that is it, honestly. 

Yawning, he rolled over to face the door and palmed his erection. Flickering his eyes open to let the bright sunlight fill his vision, he stared down at his cock, visibly impressive in his pyjama bottoms. He was a big guy, down there that is. He wasn't boasting, heck he didn't need to boast as he could give lovers the time of their lives if his cock was 1 inch or 10, no, he was far too modest to need to boast, it was simply the truth. He had plenty of anecdotal evidence as well as being a doctor.

Undressing in front of girls, showering in the army, undressing in front of boys, they all gave him the same look. As soon as they looked at it it was eyes wide, mouth open and 'wow doesn't John Watson have a massive prick' written all over their faces. 'Where the hell have you been hiding that! Its bigger the you are ' as one lad he had done his training with so eloquently put it. Yep, he was the perfect specimen of cockhood. 

He shuffled about on the bed, stretching out so he took up more space like a particularly cosy starfish. His morning erection refusing to go away. Ever since he was a teen he was always fully up whenever he woke. Yes all men get a morning stiffy, but his was totally different, his didn't just get a bit up, bit down, mostly flaccid, oh no, his morning wood was an entire Amazonian rainforest, a massive Ikea cabinet display, huge. It also refused to subside unless action was taken. It would eventually go away, but it took its bleeding time, so the easiest way to get rid of it was either a cold shower, or to just masturbate, out of the two options John certainly had a favourite. 

It caused him no end of problems. In the army, having to leap up out of bed and fight a war with a massive erection had made him the butt of a lot of jokes. At med school, trying to explain to the professor that you were late for the exam because you really had to jerk off in the loo. There was one notable occasion where he was staying at a then girlfriends house. Her parents calling them down for breakfast and him turning up with an unwanted guest. The father seemed to find it hilarious, the mother and poor Mary less so. They didn't last much longer after that. 

He wiggled his toes and slipped his hand inside the waistband of his pyjamas. Feeling the tip, circling round the enlarged flesh, teasing it. He wondered what Sherlock was up to. He could hear him pottering about downstairs. Probably conducting his ridiculous experiments.

Whoa. Hold on there old buddy old pal. 

Why the god dam hell did he think that? Sherlock was certainly not part of this ritual. He had his hand on his cock, why the fuck had Sherlock come into his mind?

He groaned. God dammit. He had been having the consulting detective invade his thoughts at the most inappropriate times recently. In the surgery, cooking dinner, on the phone, on dates. Dates. Now he had appeared in the most inappropriate of inappropriate times. The floppy haired idiot had completely invaded all other parts of his life. He refused to let have him have this, if there was one time you did not want to think of your best mate, especially your best asexual, high functioning sociopath mate, it was when you had your hands on your cock and you are on the point of orgasm. 

'You may have my life, Sherlock, but you will not have my masturbation.' He thought to himself sternly. Sherlock had taken everything since they had moved in together, now he was at the man's beck and call like a cosy jumper wearing lapdog. Is the first sign of madness thinking of your mate when you masturbate? 

'No, it probably means you fancy him beyond belief and for crying out loud just get naked and snog his fucking face off already.'

John had no idea where that voice came from, but he chose to ignore it. 

He closed his eyes again. 

'Listen up brain, I am going to wank. No Sherlock allowed.' he hissed. 

He clasped his hands over the erection, long, slow movements, pulling the skin over the top. He moaned. Working himself up, faster and faster. It was good, so good. He thought of tits, lots of tits. Yeah, tits were good. Naked women, good. Soft curves, slim, hairless legs, small lips, oh god that was good. He palmed himself harder, feeling his stomach muscles contract. He thought of tits again. Cupids bow. Black curls. That stupid coat.

Oh fuck. 

He stopped immediately and groaned to himself, though this was not the groan he had set out to achieve. God dammit. 

He tried again. Tits. Tits. Tits. Tits. Tits. Tits. Ivory skin, grey eyes. 

Dam. 

Next course of action was to not think of anything. To just empty his mind completely. That actually seemed to work. He could feel the unmistakable signs of an orgasm forming. Tickling his insides, like an itch he couldn't scratch. He sighed in ecstasy. The warmness, the pleasure. The overriding smell of burning. 

Wait. What?

Burning! He leapt up off the bed and flung open the door, he was greeted by a large cloud of smoke coming up the stairs. 

'Sherlock what the hell have you done' he yelled. 

He was terrified, images of the flat being burnt to the ground flashed through his mind. Images of him dying as flames dances around him. Coughing as the smoke burned his eyes and throat he came to terms with his impending flame ridden mortality. 

Running into the kitchen he saw his flatmate had a small fire extinguisher clasped in his hands. There was a smouldering blob of something on the kitchen table. 

'Sherlock what the hell were you doing?'

'A small experiment, I was looking into the effects of different types of gunpowder on material. Sadly your jumper was far more flammable then I had anticipated.' he said calmly, removing the googles from his face as if setting small fires was something he did every day. Which he probably did, stupid git. 

'Sherlock what have I told you, no gunpowder in the flat.......wait. My jumper! You set fire to MY jumper?' 

Sherlock waved his hand. 'John, it is.........was.........a hideous jumper. I did you a favour.'

'A favour! You did me a favour!' John exclaimed. Honestly, his flatmate was the most insufferable, rude, down right detestable man in all London. Moriarty may have strapped him to a bomb, but at least had the decency to leave his knitwear alone. Placing the extinguisher down, Sherlock picked up a brush and started cleaning up the remains of John's friend. 

'Look John, there comes a point in every friendship where someone accidentally set fire to a beloved piece of clothing.' the lanky detective said nonchalantly. 

John sighed. There was no way in all hell Sherlock would ever say sorry, or admit that blowing something up was wrong. He resigned himself to being cold this winter. 'Which jumper was it?'

'The horrible oatmeal coloured one.' Sherlock replied, throwing the ashes into the bin, then staring down his microscope, obviously completely uninterested in John's distress. 

'That's my favourite!'

'A crime against fashion.' Sherlock looked up, then suddenly stopped. For the first time since John had known him Sherlock looked rather surprised, his eyes filled with something John could not quite place. If he did not know better John could have sworn he saw a thin speck of blood rush to those cheeks, a thick eyebrow raised as his mouth fell open. 

'Erm, John' Sherlock mumbled, nodding his head towards John's crotch. The doctor suddenly remembered what exactly it was he was doing before running downstairs. Looking down the thing was still fully erect, it twitched inside his pyjama's as if it was trying to wave to Sherlock and say hello. Bloody thing had a mind of its own. 

'Yeah, I have a big cock.' He shrugged. One did not go through the army without becoming completely uninterested in people seeing various parts of your anatomy. Besides, he was wearing pyjama bottoms. 

Yep, that was definitely a blush. He shuffled in his seat and avoided John's gaze. The doctor inwardly chuckled at his friends embarrassment. Normally he was in a flap while Sherlock remained entirely calm, he enjoyed this role reversal. He enjoyed it a lot. 

John decided it was useless trying to go back to his bed and finish the job, he was too annoyed and worked up, so he decided to just ignore his throbbing manhood and make some toast. He turned his back to Sherlock, not saying anything. Giving him the cold shoulder while he waited for the bread to pop. Not that Sherlock seemed all that bothered. He spread the apricot jam extra loudly to try and show Sherlock just how angry he was. 

'I see you were polishing the monocle' Sherlock murmured.

'Polishing the what?' John was confused as to what Sherlock was going on about. 

'You know, polishing the monocle' 

'Sherlock, repeating the phrase isn't making it any more clear' 

He sighed, giving John his best 'you utter imbecile, now I have to waste precious seconds of my life explaining the bleeding obvious to you, pathetic mortal' glare. 

'Polishing the monocle' he repeated making a forwards and back movement with his hand 'Masturbating.' he added quietly. The blush was now an even deeper shade of red. 

If John was a normal man, he would wonder how a man could get to his mid thirties and still be embarrassed to say masturbating. Then he remembered this was Sherlock, blowing up jumpers was ordinary, sex was certainly not. 

'Okay, firstly never, ever call it that again, and secondly its none of your business' John glared back. Though he knew it was useless, Sherlock already knew exactly what he had been up to. He had come down with an erection that could poke someone's eye out. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together. 

He noticed his friend was still staring at him in the most disturbing way.

'Sherlock stop looking at my penis.'

Please look at it. Suck it. Lick it. Please. 

'Its very impressive...'

'No' John interrupted before Sherlock could finish. 'Don't. How am I supposed to convince Scotland Yard we're not gay if you are impressed by my cock?'

You're impressed? Just you wait till I fuck you with it

There was a long pause in which John quietly seethed, not only had he lost his favourite jumper, but a dam good self love session had been interrupted. Slamming his toast down on the table he looked at the burn marks stained into the wood. He felt his cock give up and start to deflate. Honestly, what had he done to deserve this? He was tempted to ring Lestrade, there had to be a law against destroying your friends favourite article of clothing and interrupting him masturbating in the same morning. 

'You know' John hissed angrily 'I have needs Sherlock, everyone does. We are not all robots like you.' He emphasised his point he ate a large mouthful of toast. He pretended it was Sherlock's head.

Sherlock smiled, still staring down the lens of the microscope, not looking up at John at all. 

'You think I don't?' He said darkly. 

John swallowed the toast nervously. 

'Your bodies just transport, remember?' No, no no no no. There was no way Sherlock..............did that. No way in hell. Sherlock solved the unsolvable, he caught criminals, he chucked himself off buildings and survived, he murdered innocent jumpers. He did NOT masturbate. 

Sherlock continued smiling. 

Oh god he masturbates. 

'Just because I do not have sex does not mean I don't know how to pleasure myself. I also guarantee I am far more skilled at it then you are.'

John snorted. There was no way that was true. He had been a frequent and enthusiastic member of the masturbation fan club since he was a acne riddle teen, he had it down. Sherlock was well, Sherlock, he couldn't imagine him doing anything even vaguely sexual. He ignored every bodily need imaginable. Sleeping, eating, procreating, so how the hell would he know what to do with his cock? 

There was a loud beeping noise. Sherlock instantly grabbed his phone like a shark pouncing on a unsuspecting seal.

'Text from Lestrade. Must dash' Sherlock said, grabbing his coat and running out the flat. 

Now he was alone, John gave more thought to what Sherlock had told him. If it was anyone else, the knowledge of what they did while all alone would hardly been ground breaking. Everyone did it after all, but this wasn't everyone, this was Sherlock. This was a man few thought was even human. He saw himself as above everyone, so why would he do something so common? So, base? It was a frustrating enigma. He thought he had his friend all figured out, but this made him reconsider. Maybe, he didn't know Sherlock at all?

He also wondered when Sherlock had the time to do it. He was always on a case. He never slept in his own bed. Often he would go to bed and Sherlock would be lying on the sofa, blue robe wrapped round him loosely, then when morning came he would come downstairs with Sherlock in the same position. 

He glanced at the sofa, the penny dropping. 'For god's sake Sherlock, I sit on that sofa!' he cried out into the empty flat.

Despite this, there was something about the thought of him, sprayed out on the couch, cock in hand, that John found quite thrilling. 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Over the next few days John found himself consumed by it. He wanted to know how, when, why. He needed to know. He imagined Sherlock at the point of orgasm, that great mind for once just turning off. What did he look like? Sprayed out, his hand on his cock, pleasure flooding him. When he was at work, when he was at home, he thought of it. Of the beads of sweat forming around Sherlock's neck and forehead. Of that perfect mouth forming an O shape. When he was in bed he thought of Sherlock exactly like he was, mouth open, hand pumping away, his seed covering his hands.

He did not fancy Sherlock Holmes, he did not fancy Sherlock Holmes. 

Oh fuck, he fancied Sherlock Holmes

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
He got caught in the rain on his way home from the surgery that Thursday evening. The raindrops soaking his coat and hair till he was utterly drenched and looked like he had just been for a dip in the Thames.

He ran home quickly, cursing every time he stepped into a puddle. The keys nearly slipped out of his hand when he tried to get the out of his pocket. 

'Sherlock?' he called out into the flat, finally glad to be in the dry. He climbed the 17 steps and called Sherlock's name once again.

What greeted him when entering their living room was something he had never expected. He had lived with Sherlock long enough to prepare for many things when he walked through the door, experiments, ninjas, criminals, experimenting criminal ninjas. Nothing, not in a month of Sunday's would he ever think this, this, was ever possible. 

The flat was spotless. Sherlock's junk had been put away, the floor had obviously been vacuumed to within an inch of its life. The skull had a large rose clamped between its teeth. It was like being in one of those show homes, a show home with a skull and a copy of 101 dangerous tropical poisons, but a show home non the less. 

'Sherlock' he called out timidly. Something was wrong. Maybe he was in the wrong flat? Maybe Sherlock had had a lobotomy while he had been at work? Maybe Sherlock had been replaced with a cleaning, non-mental cyborg?

'In here, John' his friend replied. 

The kitchen had been cleaned to. No microscopes lying around, no jars of eyes, no half dissected cows hearts, no washing up. Sherlock was laying the table. Putting the plates out (how does Sherlock know where the plates are? How does Sherlock know what a plate even is?), a few boxes of what smelt like Thai food rested by his elbow. It looked like a normal kitchen, clean, tidy, there for the preparation and consumption of food, so John did what anyone would do when seeing a normal kitchen in 221B Baker street. He totally snapped. 

'Okay, what the hell is going on?' he demanded. Sherlock raised his eyebrow at him, as if coming home to a clean flat and no heads in the fridge was an everyday occurrence.

'Can't I buy my flatmate his favourite takeaway?' he said innocently. 

'Normal people yes, you? No.'

Sherlock sighed and began dishing out the takeaway between them, then opening the fridge he pulled out two bottles of beer. 

'I need your help with an experiment I want to conduct.'

John breathed a sigh of relief. That was more like it, all was now right with the world. Unable to resist any longer he grabbed a fork and dug into the takeaway. 

'What experiment?' Thai food, cleaning. It made John suspicious, normally Sherlock would just do an experiment, he never asked John's permission before, he had the gap in his jumper collection to prove that. Unless........

'You want to experiment on me don't you?' he sighed, a mouth full of rice. 

'Test subject is the correct term.' Sherlock insisted. 

'Lamb to the slaughter more like.'

Now, maybe it was the clean flat, or the Thai food, or those big, pleading, puppy dog eyes Sherlock was currently giving him, but John ignored every fibre of his being that was currently screaming at him to tell Sherlock where to go. To tell him no bloody way, but Sherlock had gone to a lot of trouble, he felt the least he could do was hear him out. 

'Fine. Come on, what is this experiment of yours.' he asked, immediately regretting the words as soon as they left his lips. 'What are you doing man!' he screamed internally at himself. 'Just run, run for your life'

The consulting detective leaned back in his chair, folding his fingers under his chin and eyed John carefully. 

'I want to conduct a study on male masturbation.'

John nearly choked on the bit of chicken he was currently chewing on. 'What!' he spluttered. He coughed a few times and took a large swig of his beer. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. 

'We are both adults. No need to nearly choke to death because I said the word masturbation.' 

John felt his cheeks turn a distinct shade of red. Bright red. 'Oh my god Sherlock said a naughty word and oh my god that voice went straight to my cock' red.

'No I do not have a crush on Sherlock, no I do not have a crush on Sherlock.' He repeated, over and over to himself. 

'But why?' he asked.

'The more I know about the male psyche the more cases I can solve. Sex is a powerful motivator in murders, you know that. The more I know about it the better. All I want to do is observe how a normal man masturbates and what effect it has on him.' 

Sherlock waved a hand at him as if John was five years old and had just asked why the sky was blue. 

'And where do I come in?' As soon as John asked this he knew the answer. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrow, again.

'What? No bloody way Sherlock, get your hands off my penis.'

Sherlock sighed. 'I need to use an ordinary man!' he said exasperated. 'I need to observe the rituals, the actions.' Again his face filled with a pleading expression. The cold, stone like exterior seemed to just melt away leaving Sherlock looking like a newborn foal. 

'Don't look at the eyes don't look at the eyes. Eye contact will be the death of you.' John screamed at himself. No, no, no, no. There was no way in hell he was letting this happen. 

'Can't you base it on yourself?' John asked. 

'No. I'm unique, my method is unique.' Sherlock blushed.

'So, let me get this straight.' John took another swig of his beer, empty, he reached over the table and grabbed Sherlock's nearly full one. If he was going to have this conversation he would need alcohol, and lots of it. 'You want to watch me masturbate.'

'Yes.' 

'No.' John insisted. 'No no no no no no.'

There was a long pause. John looked down at his dinner, he felt Sherlock glare constantly on him. 

'Look around you John' he said, his voice like honey. 'Clean flat, no experiments, takeaway It could be like this.'

John thought for a moment. 'Wait, why the hell am I even thinking of letting Sherlock watch me masturbate? I should get the hell out of here, now, right now.'

'How long for'

'One month'

'Two.'

'Deal.'

Wait. DAM. Argh. 

He couldn't believe he had agreed to this. Why the fuck had he agreed to it?? A bit of takeaway and some hoovering and he was doing this? Though the idea of a clean flat and some more takeaway was tempting, and no experiments for two months was utter bliss.

'I will let you watch me.' Sherlock grinned at him. His eyes lowered into two slits, as if he was a snake dressed in Dolce and Gabbana.

John swallowed some more beer nervously. Drink the beer drink the beer drink the beer. Beer is safe, beer is nice, beer does not do experiments on your penis. 

'What do you mean?'

Sherlock chuckles. 'I know you have been thinking of me. Ever since I told you that I do it to. You have become rather obsessed with it haven't you? Well, if you let me watch you, then I will return the favour.'

And sold. To the man in the light sweat. 

'You better not write about this on your blog, I will not let my penis be next to types of tobacco ash.'  
'Very well.'

'It will stay between us?'

'Yes' 

'You said you had a unique method.'

'I do'

'And I will get to see it all?' 

Sherlock nodded. 'Saturday night. I request you do not touch yourself till then.' 

John nodded.

'I wont if you wont.' he tired to joke, but the words got stuck in his throat. 

'It will be a private experiment, we will not document it or talk about the results to anyone else.'

John nodded 'Fair enough.'

There was something in the air that was palpable. John couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. There was tension, of course, and awkwardness, obviously. He had just agreed to jerk off in front of his friend. He didn't want to admit it, but there was an electricity in the room now. 

Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock liked him to? Maybe this wasn't an experiment for him? Maybe he will see John wanking and become so overrun with desire he will strip right there and then? No, that was impossible. Sherlock will look at him like a specimen in a jar. Didn't mean he couldn't dream though. 

Okay, so maybe he was a tiny bit, only tiny, small, insignificant, slighty in love with Sherlock Holmes. Of course he would be, who wouldn't? You only had to look at him to fall hopelessly in love with the grey eyes and........okay, enough with the hopelessly, he was a grown man for god's sake. Yes, Sherlock was attractive, very very very attractive, but it didn't matter, Sherlock would never ever see him that way. He was just not programmed to feel love. Mad, passionate, Tolstoy esq love about as far removed from Sherlock Holmes as Mycroft was to not kidnapping him. It was a small crush. He would get over it, he needed to get over it.


	2. Chapter 2

Things were going quite well in the 'stop being in love with Sherlock Holmes' stakes, and then he was nearly killed and it all went to hell in a handbasket.

They were chasing some criminal round the Isle of Dogs, some idiot who had disturbed John's day off by stealing from the National Gallery. They had cornered him into some disused warehouse that really belonged in the set of some bad gangster film. 

Adrenaline rushing John made the idiotic decision of charging in, right through the front. Two things happened simultaneously. The first, shots were fired, the second, John, in the confusion tripped over a plank of wood. 

'JOHN!' he heard Sherlock scream behind. 'John, John' he sounded terrified. There was a panic in his voice that John had never really heard before.

Sherlock ran towards him, hauling his off the ground and into his arms. 

'Sherlock. I'm all right, I'm all right.'

'Are you sure, did they shoot you?'

'No, I'm fine' he said meekly. Staring up into Sherlock's eyes he saw something in those strange orbs. Something new, concern, anger, love? No. Couldn't be. 

His face was getting closer, if he didn't know better he would have sworn Sherlock was about to kiss him. He puckered his lips, he didn't pull away, staring at his mouth, ready for contact. Any. Second. Now

'Sherlock?' It was Lestrade's voice, as soon as he heard it Sherlock pulled away and left him there on the floor. 

He got up, staring after his friend as they ran off in a new direction.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

John couldn't stop thinking about it. It occupied his every waking moment for days. As Saturday drew closer and closer so did the tension. It was becoming rather unbearable in the flat. Knowing what was to come, wanting what was to come. He could barely look at Sherlock, each time he caught his friends eye he immediately looked away. He kept his promise, he didn't touch himself, but it was pure, unadulterated agony. He kept imagining Sherlock, all sorts of possibilities as to what Sherlock's unique method was. He had to grasp his hands into fists tightly, his cock begging to be touched. 

Thursday started off like any other day. He left the flat early, had a shower and ran out the door. Knowing if he saw Sherlock he could probably beg for the experiment not to happen. He couldn't do that, he needed to see Sherlock. If that meant he had a crush, or was deeply in love with the floppy haired idiot then fine, he would deal with that. He just needed this. He needed Sherlock to see him to. 

He arrived at the surgery, spent all day hiding under a desk and willing his throbbing erection to just go away. Even the mere thought of Sherlock was getting him hot and bothered. Did Sherlock moan, did he swear, did he cry out? Did he say nothing, did he have a section of the mind palace devoted to it. Was he entirely still apart from his hand? Did he even need his hand at all?

Before returning home to Baker Street he stopped at the corner shop and bought the cheapest bottle of scotch he could find. He drank a large chunk of it on the walk home. He had a feeling he would need it. 

In your room. Come straight up  
SH

He got the text just as he was in sight of the awning for Speedy's. Brief and to the point, he had expected the coldness but was still slightly saddened. He knew better then to expect candles and roses but come on, he was about to ejaculate in front of his best friend. It seemed to warrant more then a text. 

He called out Sherlock's name as he walked up the stairs, it had become a firm habit of his, he was not expecting a reply but just wanted to let him no he was home. His room was bare, years of living in the army had meant he lived with very few material possessions. A bed, a few pictures of family and friends scattered about in silver frames, a desk, a few shelves, a wardrobe. That was all he ever really needed. 

'Hello.' Sherlock spoke first. Breaking the ice. He was sitting in the old armchair, note pad in his lap, twiddling with a pen. 

'Hi' John replied. 'Do I get to get changed, have dinner? A shower?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I've been waiting all week for this. I need to see you now.' There was a strong emphasis on 'need.' John was shocked to hear his usually, calm, composed friend sound so.............desperate. 

John knew better then to argue. He had also never seen Sherlock like this, he looked on edge, tapping the pen, his feet tapping against the carpet. His knuckles white. 

'Just do what you would normally do.' Sherlock instructed. 

Sounded simply enough, but John didn't know how that was possible. He had never had anyone taking notes before. He had people watch, of course he did, but take notes? No, that was new to him.

He glanced at Sherlock who was chewing on the end of his pen in complete frustration, watching his lips already made his cock twitch into life. 

He turned on his laptop, opening up a file that had all his porn. He picked the one he watched the most, pretty vanilla, missionary, nothing too outlandish, but it had a very pretty blonde and John was a sucker for very pretty blondes. He placed his laptop on his desk, facing him. Then sat on his bed and paused. He could feel himself blush.

'Pretend I am not here' Sherlock told him. Sitting in the chair, notepad and pen at the ready, staring at him, he looked like a therapist. If therapists watched their clients masturbate. 

There was a bottle of lube in the drawer, luckily he had bought a new one a few days before so he could pretend he didn't use it quite as often as he did. He really needed a girlfriend. He fiddled with his belt, then pulled his jeans down, over his thighs, before toying with the waistband of the boxers.

He ignored Sherlock's heavy breathing, 'Don't look at him, just don't look at him', if he looked at him he was screwed. Instead he watched the porn, the pretty blonde didn't seem quite as pretty as she once did, but he was getting hard anyway. The sound of her moans filled the room, John bit his lip, trying to concentrate on her and not imagine that it was Sherlock getting fucked. 

He was too hard now to ignore it, so he pulled down his boxers and tried not to blush at the auditory gasp from his friend in the chair. Covering his hand in lube he went straight to it. Starting with soft, small strokes, making himself harder and harder, before he started to become more aggressive. 

He panted, adding a small groan to the sound of the porno. His cock was bright red, swollen and straining, throbbing in his hand. He wouldn't last much longer. 

In the haze of forming an orgasm John did something he had been desperately trying not to. He turned his head.

He nearly came right there and then. Sherlock's knuckles were white. The pen was almost being snapped in half. His eyes blown wide, he knew it was lust. There was no denying that. He could see a bulge in Sherlock's trousers. 

He panted, then came. The orgasm totally taking over him.

'Sherlock' 

He whispered the name as his seed covered his hand. 

He wanted Sherlock to say something, to do something, preferably pull him in his lap and snog his face off. He was aroused, the tension was too much. It had been going on for too long and John just wanted it to end.

Sherlock looked at him intently. Then got up and ran downstairs.

'Dammit' John hissed to himself, the high of the orgasm suddenly left him. 

He ran into the shower, wanting to wash everything away. Why did he agree to this, why?? He knew it would all end in tears. 

He scrubbed himself down, he would leave, get a new flat, run the hell away, Timbuktu, the god dam Moon, he had to leave, he couldn't stay in Baker Street any longer, he just couldn't. 

When he was done he towelled himself dry and threw on his pyjamas, he flung the door open and tried to walk out but Sherlock blocked his way. 

He had changed into his blue robe, John was not quite sure but he swore he was wearing nothing underneath it. Not that he was really looking, he was too swept up in how artfully tussled Sherlock's hair was, and the sudden deep green on his eyes. 

'Move.' John demanded. The other man shook his head.

It took a few seconds to register Sherlock's lips on his, it was warm, wet from the shower, utterly delicious. His mind went blank as Sherlock moved against him, toying with his lips and tongue. 

He pulled away far too soon, much to John's annoyance. He let out a small whine of annoyance. 

'I want to keep up my end of the bargain.' 

He led John into the sitting room. Threading his hands through his. 

'I do it here' He nodded at the sofa.

If John had been in his right frame of mind he would have given Sherlock a stern lecture, he used that sofa, Now he was too clouded with lust to really care. John decided to sit down in his armchair and pretend that he was not here. He ignored just how tightly he was gripping onto the armchair. 

He watched Sherlock slip off the robe, he drank in Sherlock's naked form. All the pale skin and dark curls. He was beautiful. He was even more beautiful the John could ever have imagined, and he had imagined it a lot. More then a lot. More then he would ever admit. 

He lay on the sofa, John took the chair and stared. He couldn't help it, all the fine hairs on his arms and neck were stood on end. The tips of Sherlock's toes, dancing around in the way they always did when Sherlock was restless, his legs, his strong thighs, his hips, the dark curl of his pubic hair, his flaccid penis, his strong chest, nipples, long neck, his eyes, nose, lips, his hair, it all seemed designed for John himself. 

Sherlock stretched out, John felt his mouth go dry, he tried to look calm and collected, but he couldn't. He felt flushed and light headed, he felt like he couldn't concentrate on anything but between Sherlock's thighs. 

'I want you to show me how you do it' John said darkly, his face utterly clouded in lust. 

Sherlock nodded. He took the violin that rested on the table. Tucking it under his chin he began to play a sweet tune that John had heard many times before, he had woken up to it, late at night when he was in bed. He never complained, in fact he was always happy when it happened. Normally when John was rudely awoken in the middle of the night he wanted to strangle Sherlock. Not with this tune though, hearing it through the floorboards always made his heart swell slightly. It was beautiful, tender, melancholic yet strangely hopeful. 

Sherlock had his eyes closed in complete concentration, his face completely relaxed. Maybe this was Sherlock's way of relaxing? Getting in the mood? His version of the pretty blonde. 

He was wrong. It was slight at first, John nearly missed it, but then it became more and more obvious. His dick was growing, the more he played the harder and harder he got. His eyes still closed, John desperately wanted to know what it was he was imagining. Then he realised something, there was no flicking of eyelids, no furrowed brows no sign that He was thinking of anything. Sherlock looked at peace, he looked asleep. 

He was hard, he was not touching himself.

It was the music. That sweet tune that he was playing was like a thousand hands covering his skin. A thousand lips kissing him. 

It was the most stirringly erotic sight John had ever seen in his life. He had never seen anyone get hard over music. Never seen anyone get hard without touch. Whenever someone was worked up, aroused, sexually, turned on, whatever you call it their heart beats faster. They sweat, they pant, they go a little crazy. Sherlock just seemed to be completely the opposite. He looked so calm, he looked like no thought was troubling that great mind. 

His prick was glowing, red and glistening. 

He couldn't resist it any more. He came forward, shuffling over on his hands and knees, trying to make as little noise as possible. The closer he came the more he could smell Sherlock. His scent wrapped themselves around the particles of air in the flat and just swam around in a sea of dark musk. It was woody and light, with a touch of vanilla and something just so Sherlock. The smell flowed up John's nose and made him feel all light-headed and in a daze. 

The closer he got the more he could see Sherlock. He could see every blemish, every freckle every scar that moulded themselves into a canvas of consulting detective. Sherlock's beauty was strange, like an alchemy. Of course he was not the first person in the world to find Sherlock beautiful, but he felt like he was the first person to see it like this. All open and unguarded, not protected by a thick layer of flappy coat and insults. Sherlock's naked form felt like the worlds best kept secret. As if he was an explorer whoo had found an uncharted part of the world. 

The music continued to play, Sherlock's cock continued to grow. Pre-cum formed at the tip, a thin layer of sweat covered his body.

John could resist no longer, he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's prick. Well, it was quite a kiss, a ghost of one, the lightest of light touches.

It was as sweet as he could possibly imagined. 

There was a squeak on the strings as Sherlock stopped. His eyes suddenly wide open and startled. 

'Trust me.' John whispered back. 

He could taste the sweat and pre cum on his tongue. An intoxicating cocktail he could resist no longer. 

Sherlock closed his eyes once more and adjusted himself. Stroking the bow of the violin once more along the strings till that tune started up once more. That sweet, sorrow filled tune. He would never be able to look at the violin again, nor the sofa, nor Sherlock. 

He took Sherlock in his mouth, gently, not wanting to disturb his concentration, again it was the lightest of light touches. He didn't want to do anything but remind Sherlock that he was there, and his mouth was on him. 

He didn't expect Sherlock to taste so sweet. He expected Sherlock to taste of ice and coldness, just like the man himself. Instead what was on his tongue was something so unmistakably human John was rather startled by. 

Sherlock began to pant, he missed notes on the violin and the melody was not quite as polished and tight as it was. then John felt his mouth fill with cum. Soft and sticky. 

John looked up at the mad genius, his eyes filled with love and tenderness, and he knew things would never be the same again.


End file.
